Meteor Garden
by CheekyXO
Summary: Light unwittingly causes a tragic event, in the wake of it he undergoes a major transformation. A one shot I wrote for the "Big Change" contest on another site. Set in an AU, this is a story told from an Introspective POV.


This is meant to be AU Death Note fiction. I turned it into a slice of life one shot piece. I was very inspired by how much Lights dad loves him. Please read and review, Thank you.

Death Note [Yagami Soichiri, Yagami Light]

*I don't own Death Note and I'm not making any money from this*

Life will beat you down, to a pulp if you let it. It'll take everything you have and still want the lunch money in your pocket or a pound of flesh from your body. Sometimes living can be an ugly business. Even so, there are those who don't flinch in the eyes of God. Those few incredible people who are the pillars still standing in the wake of life's destruction.

Every morning I get up and pray to my Mothers alter, Sachiko Yagami, for forgiveness. Her loving smile always greeted me warmly, with short brown hair, and sparkling personality she had captured my father's heart. I prayed that she would look over me, Light Yagami, and my Dad Soichiri Yagami, and help me make better decisions in life. I'd always end up closing this prayer while looking at the picture of me and dad. His black and silver streaked hair shining in the sunlight, thick black mustache making him look even older. And my light brown hair flying in the wind as he spun me. I was five in this picture. I prayed that we'd be able to find the happiness that we once had. And that she'd give us the strength to continue in life.

I got up early this morning before dad to go make breakfast. He was always up on time to do it, but I preferred to do it now. I made his favorite banana nut pancakes that my mother used to make. Turning the coffee pot off, I took a second to write a note, that dinner a simple meat lasagna, was in the freezer, along with heating instructions scribbled on the aluminum foil, just in case I came home too late tonight.

I know I sound like Suzy homemaker and you're ready for me to put on a pair of blue pumps and pull a vacuum cleaner out of a certain body orifice, but the truth is I like it this way. A few years ago I was trash. I guess some people would have called me a trouble maker, a waste of space, a delinquent. A body bag in the making, if you will. Wondering around town at all hours of the night with my friends thinking I know everything. The dead cliché of making trouble around town, to prove myself to those I called friends. Looking back on it I couldn't have been a bigger loser. A huge, certain other word for fornication, up.

Those days seem so far away now. Who can say when it all started for certain? I lost my mother when I was nine to leukemia. Just to make this clear, I had a good mother and an even better father. I had a fridge full of food, a roof over my head, and anything I ever asked for it. Never said I actually deserved it but I had everything that most kids would never be able to afford. I'm only 16 now, and I have to consider myself lucky that my life turned around at a young age. But I just wish that I had had the inherent sense of morality that supposed to exist in every decent human being that I have now from the beginning and things would have been different.

My mother had been a gentle fragile person, for most of my life she had been bedridden. She would be 34 now. She was a literature teacher for a few years before she was ordered to stay in bed. Writing novels and taking care of the home became her life. She'd always dreamed of having a modern style two story home and two children. In the end, I was the only child, due to the fact that she was unable to have more kids due to chemotherapy. My father is a 35 year old painter. He's been painting for almost his entire life. I seriously believe that man came out of the womb holding a pallet of paint, probably screaming for someone to bring him a sheet of crisp white paper to finger paint on. You might have heard of him, then again maybe not. He could probably be considered one of the unsung great warriors of the art world. His earlier paintings always reminded me of Goya's works, with a little less need for antidepressants. We made our living off of most of Dads paintings and paid the mortgage with that money.

My mom couldn't stand the dark nature of his earlier works, but she admired the amount of time, dedication, and love that he put into each piece. He used to tell her that every canvas had its own spirit, waiting to manifest through every stroke he made. Waiting to share a tiny fraction of their lives with the other side. And he was happy to share that with us. My mother's high spirits were always a great inspiration to my father. He kept that positive mentality even after her death.

In the beginning we had a hard time. A single father raising a son. He had to pick up a second job to make up for the money that we were losing. Although he was a painter that money alone wasn't going to keep us afloat. So he worked full time at the Police Department, as an officer on the beat. The people loved him there and would always look out for him, by looking out for me.

After the loss of my mother he took on two roles. He couldn't monitor my movements every second of the day. He'd leave me with a baby sitter, a homely looking chick with double chins that really knew how to throw down in the kitchen. Her fried chicken is still unrivaled to this day. When I turned ten I insisted on taking care of myself, claiming that I was old enough to be responsible. But all I really wanted to do was meet up with my friends and escape the house, escape our house. The house that used to belong to me, Mom, and Dad. Everywhere I looked I saw my mother's phantom. I was angry and bitter and ran away a lot, unable to understand why it had to be 'My' mom and breaking stuff around me.

I got into one too many fights in school, and was forced to go to an alternative school for a year, making a lot of friends when I was there. Chin, Hiro, and Lou, weren't the smartest kids around, but hey neither was I. Chin, who stood at 5'5 at such a young age, was in for constantly fighting, the other kids would always pick at his over bite. Hiro, was chubby and came to my shoulders, and I was 5'3'', he was going to be a bit of a late bloomer. Lou, thin and wiry, who was the same height as me, was in for being caught having sexual relations in the girls bathroom. Hanging with them, I got caught up in theft quickly, when cutting the lawns wasn't pulling in cash quick enough. From small things such as food, cd players, to larger things such as TV's as we got older. When I was younger I traded those items for money for candy, other toys, and arcade quarters. When I got older that money was used for alcohol and smokes.

Around the age of twelve a few times while strolling through some fancy neighborhoods, we even broke into a few houses, to impress some girls. I was nervous at first, any young freshly made thief would be. Sweating audibly, convinced that every little creak in the house was somebody coming. Convinced that a gun was going to creep out of every shadowy corner, as we vandalized the house for laughs.

Once, we got caught, and it was my dad who came to the bat for us. He fought tooth and nail not to get us any real charges or time. We got off with a crap load of fines, community service hours, and free labor to the family we victimized. He gave me a whipping I'd never forget, that was the first time he'd ever laid a hand on me. I was under house arrest for three months after all that.

A few months later we ended up moving into a much shabbier house. It was a two story ranch style home built in the thirties. Egg shell blue paint peeled, revealing old ugly dark wood beneath. The floors were warped and the closets to small. I hated to think what some of the stains in the carpet were from. It had been an empty lot for a few years now. To me it was two steps away from a shack and I understood why it wasn't occupied, but to my Dad it was our new paradise. You get the picture my dad's a hopelessly optimistic guy. He'd be happy if we lived in a mud hole as long as we had each other.

At the tender age of thirteen we became bolder. We decided to throw a party and we'd all get high and drunk. My Dad was working a double shift that night and we wouldn't be home till the afternoon of the next day. It was the first time I'd ever done such a thing at my own place, needless to say my friends were impressed, as you can imagine it doesn't take much to impress prepubescent teens. We'd had one swig to many and one puff too much. To the point where we were to drunk and too high to notice there was a fire downstairs.

A rival group of older kids accidentally started the fire. They'd thrown a bunch of fireworks on the deck of the house, just hoping to scare us, and the house caught fire like fresh tinder in a box. It didn't take much to ignite this old house. It hadn't rained in months and the old house was dryer than a hobos elbow. The fire spread quickly throughout the house. Being in my drunken state, I was all but useless I was upstairs in my bed. The other guys were downstairs.

Anyway, we were all half asleep and didn't notice the fire until it was too late. The fire was roaring downstairs. By the grace of God the nosey neighbor next door called my Dad, because of all the loud music and the shady looking boys I'd brought to the house. My Dad pulled up before the firemen were anywhere in site. He and one of the neighbor guys, Mr. Tandy, managed to pull everyone downstairs safely out. All the time he was pulling them out he was calling for me.

I heard his calls but I couldn't move I was stuck, frozen in place like a corpse. The world was an incoherent ball of nonsense at the moment for me. The smoke choked their lungs and beat at their eyes, as they made their way upstairs through the growing inferno. One arm over both of their shoulders, they managed to carry me down the stairs. My feet were unable to support my body. The commands my brain was trying to send backfired, causing me to contract and extend the wrong muscles. There was a groan from above and then a tremendous cracking, splintering, wail. My father pushed me and Mr. Tandy out of the way and towards the door as the beam and half the ceiling came crashing down, pinning him under the burning entrails of our house. Mr. Tandy took me to safety and went back in for my Dad. He couldn't get him out with my father knocked out and the weight of the beam crushing him.

When I came to I was in a soft bed. I sat up immediately and instantly regretted it. My head was spinning from all the liquor I'd had. There was a blonde blue doe eyed nurse in the room taking down some observation notes. She told me I was lucky to be alive and that my Dad had been the one to save me.

"Where is he?" I asked rolling my eyes and flopping back into the bed.

Any minute now he'd be in to give me a lecture and to ground me for all eternity. I hated his lectures and realized I'd messed up big this time.

"He's in critical care. He's not stable yet, you can't go in right now."

"What do you mean critical condition?"

"There inducing coma, there's a chance he could pull through"

My feet struck cold tiles before my mind even registered it. I remember calling her several foul and creative names that rhymed with the word 'ditch' until she was furious and in tears, finally telling me what room he was in. Later on I would write her a heartfelt apology and send her flowers.

The hospital was huge, full of turning halls that led in every direction. Following the arrows for room numbers I was able to locate the critical care hall. The smell of astringent burned my nose, and the cold tiles chilled my feet.

The busy traffic of doctors and nurses rushing into and out of the room were the first thing I noticed. Room 202. This is where my father was. I couldn't seem to clear my throat properly. Every time I'd swallow the phantom foot would stamp down harder, pressing my windpipe further. My whole world rocked dangerously as I stumbled along the wall. Everything would be fine. Everything was going to be okay. I repeated this over and over like a mantra as I looked down upon him in the bed. It was horrible. The nurse found me chanting this over and over. The moment she touched me I became real. My mind was no longer opaque, everything was crystal.

"Please don't die" I whispered as I stood there.

Something warm fell onto my bare feet. My tears were rolling in full force, large and heavy. Like hail falling onto a tin roof. My tears were louder than any of the equipment in the room.

"We've got to get him stable", said the Head Nurse.

"Dad, you don't get to do this," I balled my fists up, "You don't get to die in my place." I took one step closer.

"Somebody get that kid out of here," said a man's voice coming from behind me, he must have been the emergency doctor.

"This is all my fault… If I had just listened to you. None of this would have ever happened"

My dad's body convulsed on the bed. One of the machines beeped uncontrollably. The bed trembled as the nurses fought to keep my Dad in place.

The doctor repeated his command, pointing at two nurses, a blonde and a red head, to get me out of there. I fought their hands off me and kept speaking to my Dad. Scratching one of the nurses in the face, I don't remember which. She screeched her indignities and one of the male nurses came in to assist.

"If you had never been worried about me…"

"Come on kid, if you don't get out of here we can't help him", said the male nurse as he pulled my arms into a hold.

"Please live dad… If you stay I promise I'll change. I promise things will be different." The nurses managed to drag me outside of the room where they left me sitting in front of the door with the door closed.

"I promise I'll never say I hate you again. " Sitting on my knees, I banged my fist against the door.

I could hear them running around inside, the doctor barking orders.

"I'll never do it again! I promise I'll always listen to you! I'll be a better son!" If God could hear me I wouldn't ever ask him for anything more in my life. Just don't take my Dad away I told him. I cried myself hollow that night in front of the door. I don't have any recollection of how I got back to my room. I spent the time I had at the hospital asleep or staring at room 202. There were many visitors, none of the voices I heard were the voice that I wanted to hear. Days went on and then they finally woke him up from the coma. I was the first thing he asked to see. I stopped again, in that very spot I'd seen him the first time.

"Hey Light" He smiled at me.

"I'm so sorry"

"There's nothing to be sorry about," He gestured for me to come closer.

"Dad what are you going to do?" A fat splash struck my chest.

My father loved me and he loved his career as a painter. He had a collection of over two hundred brushes that he cherished. He'd used every single brush with such dexterity that he could put a surgeon to shame. With his hands he'd crafted awe inspiring lives on canvas for the world to see. With those hands he'd told me he was able to hold the most precious thing in his life. Me. When I was born those hands had cradled me and sheltered me from the world. Now he was missing his right arm. His love for painting would just be dust in the wind. A grain of sand lost in the desert, never to be found again. A part of him he'd never have again.

His right arm, his drawing arm had been amputated. Being to mutilated they had to remove it. The lower right corner of his face was covered in bandages, as well as nearly the whole right side of his body. He'd have to live with these deformed, painful, hideous scars for the rest of his life.

I took another step forward.

"It's all my fault" I reached my hand out, as if touching his wounds would make them disappear.

Less real.

Because I was disobedient he got hurt, because of me he had lost his dreams, his life, his identity.

I turned and ran away.

The first thing he did, when it was okay to leave the hospital was take me to church with him. He silently prayed about whatever was on his mind. Knowing him it was a prayer for me. And I silently prayed about every transgression I'd ever committed. Promising God I would uphold my end of the bargain, because I was so glad to have my pops back.

I cried day in and day out the first night of my father's return, on his shoulder. He comforted me the whole time. He let me cry myself to sleep on his shoulder, holding me close. We went on like this for the first few days. He never shed one tear, he always smiled.

He was always in his studio painting. Every second of everyday that I wasn't home. The time that I was home he spent every second with me. He came to all my play recitals and was never late. He didn't pay any attention to the way people looked at him or what they said in the shadows. People always asked what happened and he would always smile and tell them the story of how he was blessed to save his son.

Not one second before this all happened, did I ever imagine my father's grief. The hardships that he undertook to raise a degenerate kid like me. The sudden realization of just how selfish I'd been and downright hurtful to my own father stabbed at me the most. The things I'd said to wound and gouge at him, those things I wished I could take back. He had never deserved any of what I put him through. Never disclaiming me, no matter how many times he had to bail me out of some jail at odd hours of the night. Even now, he cradled my head to his chest comforting me. Telling me that everything will be okay. When in actuality I should have been the one comforting him.

"Please forgive me, it's all my fault."

"Light I would have given more, as long as it meant you would be all right. It wasn't your fault. As long as I have my other arm, I can still use it to hold grandchildren one day. So I thank God that he spared me this", He said as he held my shoulder.

Since then I've turned my life around. We moved to a new house closer to the outskirts of town. Our old neighbors and friends helped us get by. Mrs. K, a fellow church member who'd lost her brother to a heart attack recently, let us live in his old house rent free indefinitely until we wanted to move, if we wanted to move. The new house was smaller, but it was still better than the previous one. It had the smell of stale cigarettes and that old decaying smell that old people's houses usually have. We were blessed and I made sure everyone knew I appreciated it. The church helped us get back on our feet donating food and clothes. I always obeyed him no matter what now. Always. And I think it kind of irked him a little later on, so much so that he stopped asking me to do things, but I continued to do them on my own.

I took over the chores, and I got a part time job for the weekend. I stopped all contact with my old street friends. I worked my ass off in school and I did well for a former delinquent. It wasn't straight A's but it was a huge improvement from flunking out. I still wasn't perfect, but I strove to prove to him every day that I was a good son. I never wanted to let him down again. My father gained his physical independence and went back to work at the force part time. He said he wanted to help other kids who were lost, even if it was only from a desk. Eventually he would open up an art rehab studio where he helped other artists going through what he went through.

In the end, I've developed this gratitude for society. The people around me have always been ready to offer help, sometimes they've gone out of their way to help me, and I've just been too self-centered to see it. I've become quite sensitive to the difficulties faced in general by people, also I don't think any other incidence could have taught me the value of family, faith, persistence and the value of hard-work. Through my father I've adopted the right attitude in life. After facing what happened he was still able to adapt and do what he loved again. I now understand that old saying of "Something is possible only if you believe yourself to be able to accomplish it," much better now. It's in all of us to turn our lives around.


End file.
